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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350996">Current Project</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thett/pseuds/thett'>thett</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Gentlemen (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drama, M/M, PWP, Porn with a little bit of Plot, Pre-Canon, everything involving fletcher is drama, who am i lying to</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:48:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,138</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350996</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thett/pseuds/thett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>seems like Raymond and Fletcher have really long and intriguing history</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Raymond Smith/Fletcher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>111</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thank you gentleman_bastard for talking to me about this and thank you Leidari Dey for proofreading.<br/>hail satan and have a lovely afternoon 🖤</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mr. Raymond Smith preferred his rendezvous points as ridiculous and intolerable as he was. They knew each other long enough for Fletcher to get used to this feature but not long enough to get an explanation. Today’s wasn’t the worst place of all places Fletcher had to attend while working on current project, but.<br/>Intrusive piano tune faded for a long pause and then returned accompanying a smooth jazz vocal humming some Radiohead hit. The performance was so bad it threatened to cause serious damage to Fletcher’s aesthetical feelings through his ears. Fortunately, there still was Mr. Raymond Smith sitting across the room and looking nice enough to compensate the damage (his looks costed like about two Radiohead covers and one Oasis, at least).  <br/>And then there was Fletcher, creeping silently from a cozy corner table on Mr. Raymond Smith and his mysterious companion.<br/>The thing is, Fletcher loved jazz. Some good vinyl, the audiophile headphones, reclining in a comfy chair in a quiet darkness of the drawing room, a glass of something fragrant in your hand, your sorrows put on sound.<br/>Also Fletcher has had an attachment to Radiohead. Nothing outstanding for a forty-something desperate gay. He had sucked a cock in the men’s room while listening to this exact song numerous times. Every word of it tasted of salt and warm frustration and toilet disinfector.<br/>And the quality of performance sucked so much harder than Fletcher that he was slightly jealous. After being sick, of course.<br/>So, The Fox and the Hedgehog damned pub was certainly making it to the top 5 most terrible places Raymond had ever taken him. Even if Raymond never cared for a proper invitation. Even if Raymond didn’t know he ever took Fletcher to places.<br/>Meanwhile, Fletcher wasn’t the only one confused by the change in the environment. Raymond’s contact hurried to cut the bait. Replies have become chopped, hands were moving wide and - Fletcher clicked the shutter of pager-looking camera - some card with battered corners was passed. It disappeared in a front pocket of Raymond’s jeans. Mysterious stranger lend a hand, Raymond shaked it after a tiny delay, the deal was sealed and the guy was gone.<br/>Fletcher hitched a pager camera to his belt and threw the notebook back in the bagey. Today’s work was done and time has come for the simple pleasures. Have a drink, get a boy, blow your mind off, fuck your brains out. Fletcher knew how to do it. He was used to it.<br/>Mr. Raymond Smith sat still. Only his hands were moving; he scratched the surface of his palms again and again until they’d become red with irritation. He didn’t look like his working hours were over - or, more likely, like he could be happy that they were. His body language, how good Fletcher managed to learn it, whispered of anxiety. Why was he anxious? He has been boiling in this pan for a decent decade not to worry about minor negotiations. Perhaps there was a deepest matter, Fletcher should dig into it later; all of this he thought on his way across the room.<br/>Musicians exchanged a couple of disturbing glances as he walked and continued performance with the Coldplay. The Fox and the Hedgehog have made it to the top 3.<br/>Raymond didn’t raise his head. The pretender, he must’ve had seen Fletcher from a long distance.<br/>“Hey beautiful,” Fletcher began with his usual. “Care for a drink?”<br/>He decided not to wait for the invitation and made himself comfortable at the table.<br/>“Piss off, Fletcher,” Raymond suggested. “Does this respectable pub look like a Canal street to you?”<br/>“Not in a bit,” Fletcher confessed. “Isn’t that the reason why you choose such horrendous places all the time?”<br/>“Did you ever have a thought about something like having a little dignity in your lost miserable life?”<br/>“I do have a thought about having something else in my something else, sweetheart, and I have it all the time. It’s tiring.”<br/>“You’re tiring,” Raymond said.<br/>“Let me prove you’re wrong,” Fletcher lulled.<br/>“You’re following me to places. You’re making these stupid… notes. You’re violating my privacy…”<br/>“No I’m not,” Fletcher managed to squeeze in.<br/>“Yes you are. I don’t have an idea how you find me all the time…”<br/>“With my loving heart, darling.”<br/>“...or what you’re digging for, but you will not find it. The business is as legitimate as prince Henry. The enterprise is clear.”<br/>“You all say that,” Fletcher sighed theatrically.<br/>Did he catch a sunbeam in the eye, or a corner of Raymond’s mouth had twitched?<br/>“Listen to me Fletcher, take all of your mockery bullshit and make up a stand-up programme. Or take it to the corner of Smith street and get fucked already. You’re a pity to look.”<br/>“What if it isn’t,” Fletcher said. All of the possible answers got to his throat, making it hard to continue. “A mockery.”<br/>“And what would that be?” Raymond asked casually.<br/>“That would be I want that fuck,” Fletcher tried to swallow an obvious joke but didn’t succeed. “And I don’t fancy going to the Smith street regarding that I already have you here.”<br/>Now that he said it he felt properly fucked, and not in a good way.<br/>“Does that suggestion make me a rent boy?” Raymond said calmly.<br/>Fletcher had experienced a very plausible hallucination of a stool falling under his feet.<br/>“Sorts of. I’d pay you to suck you off.”<br/>“What an attractive prospect.”<br/>At first Fletcher supposed he was having another hallucination, audial now, but the knot of sickness in his stomach felt pretty real.<br/>“A shame to decline,” he agreed. “Who would refuse a free blowjob.”<br/>“Not free,” Raymond pushed back his chair and stood up. “I want to be sure you’ll stop following me after this.”<br/>“You have my word,” Fletcher promised. After this he could use a little break from a current project. Or even a proper vacation.<br/>“Not that I would believe anything that comes from your mouth, Fletcher,” he stuttered, and Fletcher realized with growing sense of unreality that it was a joke. A sex-themed joke.<br/>Dirty joke from a patron saint of all London’s virgin gangsters.<br/>“You will,” Fletcher tried to dim his smile, but failed. “Both believe and come, I mean.”<br/>Raymond radiated displeasure with every inch of his broad back, but broken receiver in Fletcher’s head translated the waves of angry heat into the mind-blowing lust. His mouth was watering. Corners of his eyes were watering, too. His hands were shaking. All the signs of a great shag coming; in the years of his bloom these signs shot right through his blessed acquaintances, making their eyes greasy, their hands greedy, placing their mouths on his.<br/>They still did, forty-something or what. Not in this case, though.<br/>Raymond’s hands were still as a steel breastplate on his chest. He walked into a stall first and leaned against a wall, cool as the fresh sheets, composed as a tune. Fletcher turned the lock and placed both his hands onto Raymond’s polished hips. Rough scar of a fly under his thumbs, car keys in the right pocket, card in the left.<br/>“So?”, asked Raymond.<br/>His tone could hardly be mistaken for impatient, but Fletcher had a powerful imagination. He oscillated forward; heat was vibrating visibly. Fletcher licked his lips before a kiss and then felt the red-hot fire-brand through the fly.<br/>His stupid dick-craving body was on its knees before his stupid dick-craving mouth could whisper, “Oh boy.”<br/>Said boy gritted his teeth audibly. Fletcher was above this kind of appreciation - or far below, better to say. He blacked out for a moment and regained consciousness in a beginning of giving the most hasty, most wholehearted head he ever did. His hands were on a belt, missing a buckle, they were deep under the fabric of Raymond’s jeans, crushing his thighs in an involuntary squeeze, they were pulling the underwear down with one honed movement.<br/>Fletcher took a deep breath and gave a decent development to the promising introduction. He licked and he sucked and he whined undertone, under the fat crown on his tongue, around thick shaft in his hand. He let out wet devouring noises and strained his ears to hear something, anything in between. Raymond didn’t make a sound as an experienced wanker he was, quiet and still like a deer trapped in the headlights. He probably wouldn’t find this comparison flattering. His strong hell of a legs quivered too rarely, his breath was even except for low hissing exhales, his chin stuck in an unpleasant grimace.<br/><i>Aren’t you a talker, </i>thought Fletcher with a cut of tenderness and a lick on the head, <i>we’ll see how you’d sing.</i><br/>Why did he even assume there was some kind of ‘will’. Or a kind of ‘we’.<br/>He thought he knew the boys like that, quiet and grim even when it came to business. Every single one of them carried a wormhole under their heart, and it was only a matter of time until Fletcher have had found it, put his talented hands into it and fill it, and it made them moan.<br/>He thought he knew.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I remember we had an agreement,” Raymond’s voice was dry as a martini - the only dry thing at the whole Liverpool port. It was raining since the dawn. Fletcher knew it because his duty obliged him to arrive at least half an hour before the meeting, and the meeting Raymond had at Liverpool port was appointed at 7:00 of morning. So, no sleep, only drive. With a dash of coke to sweeten the pill.<br/>“We did,” Fletcher wasn’t in a mood to bicker. “By the way, hello honey. How was your day?”<br/>“Went well before you showed up,” lied Raymond and straightened up. He knocked on the glass - with his fingers, now, but Fletcher could clearly see the outline of a gun under his armpit.<br/>Coke has winded out hours ago, and Fletcher’s feeling of being old and sleep-deprived could compare to nothing. He decided against a race under the pouring rain and got out the car. Raymond, like a little bitch he was, moved his umbrella, so Fletcher couldn’t stand under it.<br/>Fletcher pulled over the hood of his waterproof coat and lit a cigarette. Two could play this game.<br/>“Something wrong with the car parts?” asked Fletcher, trying the sincere tactics.<br/>“It’s called autoparts,” Raymond moved farther from a line of smoke. “No thank you. Cargo is good. We aren’t.”<br/>“Is that so.” Fletcher made a step forward and placed his hand onto neatly draped chest. “Did you find my service unsatisfactory?”<br/>“I highly doubt you can call it service if I jerked you off after,” Raymond frowned. “And still you have the nerve to come and bother me here a mere week later.”<br/>He didn’t try to remove Fletcher’s hand. That was inspiring.<br/>“A whole week,” Fletcher fixed him. “We didn’t discuss a particular timing. And also I don’t have any nerves left after all this drive to Liverpool and waiting in the car while you search for a correct cog through these endless boxes.”<br/>“Life of a corrupted rat, so hard.”<br/>“What hard here is your heart, caro mio, but I forgive you anyway. Anything else? Can’t wait for another 4-hour drive home and then sleeping for the next two days. One wakeful night has a terrible impact on skin, in this age.”<br/>“Why don’t you make it a month,” Raymond’s voice was uncertain, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be cruel or to be kind.<br/>“You’d have to give me significantly larger favour, for a month,” Fletcher said, and, his silly habits be damned, made an appropriate gesture involving his hand, his cheek and his tongue.<br/>“I’ll pass,” said Raymond without any hesitation. “Have fun, you greedy bastard.”<br/><i>Oh, </i>thought Fletcher, <i>is it anger, or are you interested?</i><br/>Turned out, he was.<br/>Fletcher found it out no more than three days later during a scheduled appointment at the well-known Rose and Two Black Dogs pub, famous for the worst lager at the Fleet street. Not that Fletcher would opt for beer during working hours, but the coffee was even worse. “Don’t drink the latte,” cautioned Fletcher while inviting his hands into Raymond’s underwear and wiping the door of men’s room with his back. “I feel like one of Rose’s black dogs took a piss into my mouth.” “It’s the natural taste of latte,” Raymond bitched, but while he squeezed Fletcher’s arse in both his hands Fletcher had nothing to complain to. “Also, don’t touch me with this mouth until you brush your teeth.” “That would be a loss,” Fletcher sighed. “Then how are we going to enjoy ourselves?”<br/>Raymond came down to his knees and said: “How long for this?”. Fletcher answered: “Honey, I’m a man with an experience, so you can count on five minutes for sure.” Raymond looked up, his glasses askew, his forehead sweaty, like he was winning a sprint. “How long of your absence will this grant me?”. “Oh, this,” Fletcher took an ambitious attempt to think while Raymond’s lips were no farther than an inch from his crotch. “This would count for two weeks.” “Three,” Raymond undid the button, he wasn’t looking at Fletcher’s face anymore, concentrated and calm. “Two and a half,” said Fletcher. This was the last coherent thing he said for five - well, four, but who was counting? - minutes.<br/>Neither of them guessed right. Next meeting happened on the day eight, which made it two days shorter than the interval between the first and the second encounters. It took place in The Posh Place, which was really posh and had real silverware and crystal glasses and ten bottles of different fluids in the toilet, which caused not a very successful attempt to fuck. “My back isn’t what it used to be,” Fletcher whined, frustrated and hot. “Don’t whine,” Raymond said, squeezing more lotion from a marble dosator onto his hand and applying it between Fletcher’s thighs, and pushing there with a seamless motion, giving Fletcher sparkles of anticipation of what it would be like if - when - he did this properly, and a shortcoming headache of wanting too hard. “What a waste,” Fletcher muttered, clenching his thighs together to have more of a weak simulacre of a full Raymond Smith experience. “You’re a waste,” answered Raymond, wrapping his fingers around Fletcher’s dick. “A toxic fucking waste,” but Fletcher didn’t feel like a waste. He felt luxurious.<br/>Further explorations of London’s attractions and Mr. Smith’s limits involved attending the Royal Opera (“You’re still doing car parts, imma right?” specified Fletcher. “They’re autoparts and yes, I’m doing them exactly.” <i>You’re wrong,</i> thought Fletcher, <i>you’re doing me</i>), one memorable walk in the Regent’s Park, which was a solid story to tell someone else’s grandkids, and a visit to the burlesque show at the Pevans and Eel Detective Agency including a handjob under the table witnessed, as Fletcher was sure, by some of the dancers.<br/>Fletcher had a thought that Raymond maybe began to suspect something.<br/>Raymond invited his next business partner to the Westminster Baths.<br/>Fletcher, the purest of souls, would have assumed it was a proposal of a threesome (and he wouldn’t mind, anything for the love of his life), but after an hour of taking the steam the outstanding truth had revealed itself: there was no business today at all. No car parts business at least. Finnish sauna was a nasty place; Raymond sat on a upper bench with a bored look on his red face, like a king of his little kingdom of doom (‘Westminster Baths are the most ancient London baths’, the leaflet promised. ‘We’ve made King Arthur sweat’). Beneath him two couples copulated in the shadows. Outside the sauna someone shrieked, jumping into the pool with ice cold water.<br/>“What happened to your guy?” asked Fletcher politely. He tried not to breathe through his ruined nose. And through his mouth. Tried not to breathe at all.<br/>“He’s slavic,” Raymond shrugged. “They’re tough with this kind of baths”.<br/>“You could invite him to the regular sauna.”<br/>“I could,” Raymond licked the sweat off his lip. “I wanted to go here.”<br/>He looked Fletcher right in the eye. Fletcher’s head felt dark and heavy, blood rushed to his ears.<br/>“Want to hook up a third wheel?”<br/>“No I don’t,” Raymond’s gaze hasn’t change a degree.<br/>Twink couple on his right splitted up and gave Raymond a look of sorrow. “That’s a pity,” said the one with darker hair and too many jewellery. “But if you change your mind we’ll still be here”.<br/>Where’d they get all these strong muscular hearts to keep up with the heat.<br/>“I’m going to hammam,” announced Fletcher. He didn’t try to stand up straight and went down the stairs half-bent. “Another minute in here and you’d need a new personal assistant, photographer and also a cock-sucker.”<br/>“Don’t forget to close the door,” said Raymond.<br/>Fletcher didn’t.<br/>What he did was he went straight to shower to take his time under the lukewarm stream and stare at a trio kissing in the next stall. Maybe a threesome wasn’t the worst idea. Maybe some nimble and quick young Jack would be able to wake up Raymond’s sensuality, let out his spiritual beast, which - Fletcher had his hopes high - would be hungry, and generous, and tactile.<br/>God, he missed the tactile stuff. Raymond’s huge hands would feel fantastic on his neck. They were much missed during all the blowjobs Fletcher gave him. Who was he, not trying to push Fletcher, not a single time? His mouth, Fletcher had nightmares about this mouth travelling down his collarbones, biting a shoulder, gently touching the kneecap. Never ever Fletcher’s sexual life was so intense and so poor at the same time.<br/>When he opened the door to a hammam, Raymond was already there, reclining on the marble seat. Fletcher laid down next to him, appreciating the view. Wide planes of his shoulders, the hills of his vertebraes. Fletcher raised his hand and traced the line of Raymond’s backbone.<br/>“It seems you’re too delicate to withstand the steam,” Raymond said matter-of-factly. “Want to change the scenery?”<br/>Of course he did.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So much for the scenery,” Fletcher let out a short laugh. Raymond didn’t answer; he parked the car in a particularly dark alleyway, shut the door and disappeared for five long minutes. Was he picking up an emergency Chinese delivery? An emergency cocaine delivery? Had he remembered suddenly he had to beat someone up? Or maybe he had seen a homeless kitten half a block earlier and was making a quick resque run? Fletcher considered the idea of going outside to check, but one thoughtful look at the smelly mist put an end to his hesitation.<br/>
Fletcher sighed and took out the notebook dedicated to the current project. He briefly looked through it, as he did every time he intended to add a new note, and opened the last filled page. Removed the cap from the Parker ink pen with his teeth and wrote with his trademark irony.<br/>
<i>Dear diary, today the Subject had invited me to an incredible place.</i><br/>
If only he’d knew.<br/>
Back door opened and closed again, forcing Fletcher to drop the cap from his teeth. Two seconds later Raymond returned on his seat and fastened the safety belt immediately, as if just sitting on the driver’s seat itself could kill him. Fletcher laughed again. It were just nerves, probably.<br/>
“Thank god,” said Fletcher, sneaking the pen and the notebook back in his bag, “I thought you were going to fuck me in this devilish gutter.”<br/>
“If anything is devilish here it’s you,” repelled Raymond a little bewildered. “And who said I was going to fuck you.”<br/>
“That little bagey with a pharmacy logo on the back seat gave me the idea,” chirped Fletcher cheerfully. “And maybe that you’re driving us to yours.”<br/>
“He that would eat the fruit must climb the tree,” declaimed Raymond, and Fletcher laughed.<br/>
His intention to laugh disappeared just half an hour later, when Raymond, naked and ready for consumption, laid down on his comprehensive bed.<br/>
“Eat me, then,” Raymond said and set his chin on his folded hands.<br/>
“And then climb you?” Fletcher’s thoughts were scattering.<br/>
“You’re getting the idea,” Raymond nodded.<br/>
Fletcher felt like falling from the high to which he climbed, - ha-ha, - while boiling quietly during the ride, pressing Raymond to every corner of the endless hallways of his house, looking at him getting undressed.<br/>
Fletcher cleared his throat.<br/>
“Let me get this one thing clear, love,” said he, bitter taste on his tongue. “I don’t top. I’m, like, the bottomest of them all. Physically unable to top a person.”<br/>
“Are you unable to fuck?” asked Raymond.<br/>
“Well I wouldn’t say that.”<br/>
“Good,” said Raymond, and then he spread his legs. “Eat me.”<br/>
He didn’t ask and he didn’t order. He spoke in a casual tone but it was humanly impossible to resist him. Fletcher didn’t try again. He fell to his knees and landed on top of Raymond. He couldn’t fight this, this - this life-giving heat, the essence of it. Fletcher kissed the shoulder and moved his hips, and for the moment their bodies aligned just so right that Fletcher wouldn’t care about the tops and bottoms. He was happy with what he had, and what he had was this gorgeous body with a paranoid android inside of it, and a full-skin contact, which was joyful and shining.<br/>
He squeezed at the nape and breathed in the smell of Raymond bursting through the smell of soap. His scent was burning the nerve endings no less successful than the 10-years aged Laphroaig. Fletcher snaked down, kissing the landmarks on his way. Raymond muttered something quiet, expressing his displeasure, but Fletcher, as the great pervert he was, had developed a Pavlovian reflex and seemed to get off on it.<br/>
“Would you kindly get to work.”<br/>
“I’m working up an appetite,” Fletcher retorted. “Before the dinner.”<br/>
He bit the left cheek of the perfect arse, then the right. Lascivious thighs followed his hint and spread, Raymond arranged his legs around Fletcher’s shape and bent his waist with such a careless imperious motion that Fletcher’s stomach dropped. He bowed down over the thighs and moved them apart, and then he placed a wet inaccurate kiss between them.<br/>
Raymond’s exhale trembled, and that was all Fletcher needed to continue.<br/>
As he knew from practice, this ritual required variety, so at first Fletcher wrote the full lyrics of that damned song from The Fox and The Hedgehog, which no more was a hymn of anonymous sex in a men’s room stall and became a hymn of sex with Mr. Raymond Smith in a men’s room stall, and also in the Regent’s Park, and under the table. At this moment Raymond had successfully achieved a liquid state, which was a good sign, and was twitching at the certain combinations of letters, so Fletcher, as the poet he was, started writing these syllables exactly. Raymond stopped breathing at all and when he started again that was it, the exhale on the verge of the moan, the smooth pitiful sound, making Fletcher’s mouth water.<br/>
He put it to good use, adding the spit to the pink hole and caressing the scrotum with his now wet fingers. He could feel the mighty erection Raymond concealed and his mind was envious, and his body was hungry and unsatisfied. But - above all that - there was Raymond, the concrete of his composure beginning to crumble, his waist impossibly thin and his arse high up, meeting Fletcher’s caress. Fletcher moaned into his hole, the sound was ringing in his ears, or was it Raymond’s answer, he didn’t know, he pushed his tongue through the rim, and Raymond bucked up.<br/>
“You want me to fuck you?” specified Fletcher, hopeless and hot.<br/>
“You’re a bottom,” Raymond answered. “Of this fucking life. Give me the lube.”<br/>
He waited patiently until Fletcher found the bag and moved closer. He covered his fingers in the lube and he stretched Fletcher quickly and efficiently, like a productive manager he was. The act itself was nothing near pleasant, but Fletcher managed to extract the joy from it, wiping his wet forehead at Raymond’s shoulder and mouthing his magnificent deltoids. He was high on the anticipation again, and this time it was a resolved case, a promised dose. Raymond’s skilled fingers were inside of him, not giving any real relief, but a promise of one. That one kind that makes a man groan with a suppressed want.<br/>
Fletcher wasn’t suppressed; he was open and he groaned with a full sense of self-respect. Raymond swore and bit at his neck, hard, and that didn’t make Fletcher’s situation any easier.<br/>
<i>So that’s how you’re talking.</i><br/>
“Now,” Fletcher grunted. “For the love of god.”<br/>
“I am no god,” said Raymond - growled, he was so chronically frustrated, OCD’d to the bone and thinking too much of himself, dot, dot, dash.<br/>
Fletcher was laying face-down (not his favourite position but now anything would be his favourite) and hungry and wet with the lube, and Raymond was on top of him, burning and fussy with the condom, and then he was pinning Fletcher down to his orthopedic mattress, ruthless and slow, cruel and inevitable as the return of the great white dove.<br/>
He was inevitable all this time, Fletcher thought with a shudder, this was inevitable, and he said, “Yes.” He said, “Please.” He said, “You so are.”<br/>
Raymond fell onto him like a rock, crushing Fletcher under himself in a selfless motion. He was so hot Fletcher’s lungs were close to a collapse. He had a certain technique, he knew how to give it, and Fletcher knew how to take it, and Fletcher’s heart hasn’t had a capacity to contain the beauty of this all, but it had.<br/>
“Fuck,” Fletcher moaned. He was short out of words, “Ray, fuck it, holy fuck.”<br/>
“Yeah,” said Raymond, it was better than any confession, sincere and strong, accompanied by a movement of hips and a short exhale. “Yes. Don’t say my name in vain.”<br/>
Certainly, he did have some kind of a god complex.<br/>
“You’re having some kind of a god complex,” Fletcher shared. He did share. He was a generous person.<br/>
“I’m having you,” Raymond declined, and then he started to move with sharp quick movements, really having it, having Fletcher, and Fletcher had lost any desire to have the shrink talks. He was moaning and he was trembling and he was moving his hips in small circles meeting Raymond’s hips and he was.<br/>
He was so <i>now</i>.<br/>
Later he put a cigarette in his mouth, exhausted and sated for a first time for weeks, for years, for forever - and met Raymond’s piercing gaze.<br/>
“It’s sacred,” protested Fletcher. “The post-coital one, baby, you have to understand.”<br/>
“Outside,” said Raymond. His gaze followed Fletcher all the time Fletcher draped himself in a hand-braided bed cover, so Fletcher did make an effort and styled it like a toga. “And don’t call me baby.”<br/>
“Roger that, love,” Fletcher answered, disappearing in the backyard with a glow of a great fuck around him.<br/>
Raymond didn’t bicker at that, or maybe Fletcher just couldn’t hear it. He stood there at the backyard, humming a pop tune and wobbling on his toes. In his mouth a taste of Raymond’s sweat mixed with a taste of his skin, multiplied by a taste of his own moans. It was lively and earthly and gross. It was beautiful.<br/>
The sliding door creaked and let out Mr. Raymond Smith in all his glory, completely and absolutely naked. Raymond winced at the chilly summer night wind and pulled a cigarette from Fletcher’s pack. While Fletcher clapped the non-existing pockets for the lighter, Raymond bent down to him, closing their faces as if in a kiss. He lighted his cigarette from Fletcher’s own. He dragged the smoke in.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first and the last time Fletcher was granted an honour of travelling in the back seat of Raymond’s car was the day he delivered the current project. That day Fletcher and Candy were hanging at the The Fox and the Hedgehog for a really long time. They’ve managed to listen to all the covers the band offered twice; they’ve had the tea three times. <br/>“So that’s the client,” said Candy, when Raymond guided the lady to the table.<br/>Fletcher nodded, “She is. He’s been working for her for months.”<br/>He tapped at the notebook proudly.<br/>“How’s your project,” asked Candy. “Married him yet?”<br/>“Not yet but we’re approaching,” Fletcher bragged. “I’ve got the keys to the mansion.”<br/>“You could sell the keys for a good price,” Candy suggested, “I’ll see if I can find a buyer.”<br/>“No need for that, I don’t intend to move out soon,” refused Fletcher. “He has quite a nice…”<br/>“Dick?”, Candy smiled.<br/>“Furniture,” Fletcher fixed. “It’s antique. And don’t forget about the vinyl collection.”<br/>“Vinyl,” Candy whistled. “It’s serious, bruv.”<br/>“You know what’s serious? His home bar.”<br/>Candy nodded. They’ve fell into the silence, watching the couple leaving. Raymond, being a true gentleman, handled a coat to the lady. She took it with a noble grace, pulling her impossibly thin arms through the sleeves. The wool of her coat seemed really expensive; all about her seemed expensive, maintained and posh.<br/>“It’s a miracle women can own a business like this these days,” wondered Candy. “I’m really glad for the feminist movement.”<br/>“Amen,” said Fletcher. “For the car parts.”<br/>They clinked pots. Raymond and a lady walked to the door; on his way Raymond made a detour to Fletcher’s table and said, passing by, “Are your coming.”<br/>Fletcher answered, “In a moment, love.” <br/>“Wow,” Candy made a comment. “You say it like you mean it.”<br/>“I mean it every time,” Fletcher fell out of a trance. “You know me.” <br/>“The hell I do,” agreed Candy. “Go and chase your love.”<br/>“I’ll text you,” concluded Fletcher and pulled on the jacket.<br/>“Waiting for a final act,” Candy waved him away.<br/>He was on a doorstep when the singer cleared her throat and announced, “For a pal in the leather jacket.”<br/>Fletcher froze. “By request of his… sweet friend,” the singer said questioningly. “Anyway. People are strange.”<br/>The guitar player was strumming the first chords of The Doors’ greatest hit. Fletcher cursed under his breath and send a burning gaze to Candy. Candy saluted him with the pot. The Fox and the Hedgehog had pulled it’s socks up and leaped to the first place of the worst pubs in all the universe. Nobody could insult The Doors.<br/>Fletcher should have suspected something at this exact moment, but he didn’t, and this is the reason you’re reading this story.<br/>Raymond was waiting for him outside. “Back seat,” said Raymond. “The front seat is occupied.”<br/>“Is that a surprise?”, Fletcher got excited. “For me?”<br/>He got into the back seat. The front seat was occupied by a massive box. Raymond started the car and drove in an unknown direction. Fletcher didn’t care where exactly he drove; every place was equally good with Raymond, until.<br/>“I suppose your investigation is complete,” said Raymond indifferently.<br/>Until it wasn’t.<br/>“Finally it is,” confirmed Fletcher. “She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”<br/>He was just stalling. This investigation could take the all of his lifetime, and he’d be happy if it did. Funny old Fletcher.<br/>“She is,” Raymond had spun the steering wheel ninety degrees, making Fletcher’s insides twist. “And so is her husband.”<br/>“Oh,” said Fletcher. “Are you going to cheat on me with him? You don’t need to ask. We’re in the open relationship, you know.”<br/>“I’m not asking you,” said Raymond, parking the car. It was so dark outside Fletcher couldn’t see where they were. Or maybe it was dark before his eyes. “I’m going to work for him. His organization is just awful. But it has the potential.”<br/>“I have the potential, too,” tried Fletcher and pulled at the door. Worthless; the doors were locked, and so was Raymond, locked at all of his endless latches.<br/>“Yeah you do,” confirmed Raymond. “Give me the notebook.”<br/>It was useless to fight him back. The music was over. Fletcher took out the precious notebook and handed it to Raymond with care. Raymond turned on the light above him and dived down in reading.<br/>He took out the card which Fletcher had stolen at their first encounter and put it back in his pocket. “Nice photo,” he commented, turning the page. He had read thoughtfully and carefully from the first page to the last. When he finished, he unlocked the doors; Fletcher considered running away, but he considered for too long. Raymond had opened the back door.<br/>“Get out,” he suggested. Fletcher shook his head. He knew what he was doing when he got involved with a gangster. He didn’t have a thought it would come to this. “Get out when I’m asking you nicely.”<br/>“Raymond,” pleaded Fletcher with all his heart. “Don’t do this to me.”<br/>“Don’t do what,” asked Raymond and clenched Fletcher’s ankle. He drew at it and then he pulled Fletcher out into the streetlight, which was somehow familiar.<br/>“Don’t kill me,” explained Fletcher. He was shaking.<br/>“Not going to,” Raymond condescended to him. “If you’re going to listen to me.”<br/>“I’m all ears,” announced Fletcher.<br/>A little big lie regarding that Raymond’s hands were now at his hips.<br/>“I’m going to work for him,” repeated Raymond while unbuttoning Fletcher’s jeans. “He’s a nice guy.”<br/>“And I’m not,” guessed Fletcher. He was quick-witted.<br/>“You’re quick-witted,” said Raymond.<br/>He threw Fletcher’s notebook on the ground and got down on one knee, and if Fletcher thought he knew what it was to receive Raymond’s blowjob, he was wrong. Raymond was thorough and smooth and so tender, it broke Fletcher’s heart; it broke everything he had managed to build for them, crushing their fragile arrangement, grinding their now and past and future to the powder, leaving nothing to collect. He slid down Fletcher’s cock like a pro, like an effective manager he was; he pulled up and down with a comprehensive impact. He left no stone of Fletcher’s being unturned and he reassembled him in a new horrendous shape. <br/>“Please,” groaned Fletcher, coming into his mouth for a first time.<br/>Raymond wiped his lips and blinked in a familiar manner. He stood up and picked up the notebook and shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat.<br/>“You’re welcome,” said he, scratching his palms nervously. <br/>Fletcher could tell so much about the ways of his anxiety. If only he has had the one to tell.<br/>“You can keep the diary,” Fletcher surrendered. “I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”<br/>“Much appreciated. Will you take your belongings?”<br/>Fletcher looked at the front seat. The surprise box turned to be the enemy he feared the most.<br/>“No thank you. You can keep it,” said Fletcher. He was useless and weak, and not from the blowjob at all. “Can you drop me at my place, please?”<br/>“We are at your place,” said Raymond with a touch of something unreadable, and finally Fletcher had recognized the streetlight. It was the streetlight outside his respectable flat.<br/>“So thoughtful of you,” muttered Fletcher. He was so very sick. The sensation didn’t go straight to his heart; it fell to his knees at first and it made them shudder, then it got up to his stomach and made it stone cold, and then - finally - to his chest, and it made him moan.<br/>There was no beautiful ending waiting in the last line of this scenario, even if it was beautiful from a director’s point of view. Fletcher didn’t want a director’s cut; the only thing he did want was crawling up his abandoned hole, getting in the most dark and secure corner and listening to the jazz for weeks. Maybe he should also listen to Coldplay and The Doors. Maybe he should go to the pub and purchase a CD with all of their shitty covers.<br/>“How about the freelance,” asked he instead. You see, Fletcher was a believer. He didn’t let go easily. “All these conspirative rendezvous under the cover, you know. Long time no see, you dirty men’s room stalls.”<br/>“No freelance,” said Raymond. “It’ll be a full-time job.”<br/>His tone became more sympathetic with every syllable, and this was what Fletcher couldn’t take.<br/>“Well,” said Fletcher. “Then I’m gone.”<br/>And so he was.<br/>***<br/>The first time Fletcher was granted an honour of travelling in the back seat of Raymond’s car was the day he delivered the current project. <br/>The last time was ten years later.</p>
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